His appearance which, in its perfection, was quite earthly, suggested neither heaven nor hell, but some planet where the atmosphere differs from ours; where it is pink; where birth and death have forms higher than here.
~Edgar Saltus
It is also as though elastically pink. Pink then not pink, then pink, then not pink, or barely pink, then very pink. Pink spreads. Innumerable pink bulbs appear. Pink spreads more and more. I generate it, I sparkle with it. I am sprouting pink. I suffocate with pinkness, with pinkening . .
And if the height of the enjoyment thus spread out and multiplied were solely the fact of being pink, pink, pink, stupidly, deliriously, paradisiaclly pink, pink enough to make you howl, unless you had the soul of a whore and took a flabby pleasure in yielding to it.
I was up to my eyes in pink, pink besieged me, licked me, wanted to confound me with itself.
~Henri Michaux
The spaces were not a memory. They were a desire, a kind of happiness that could exist anywhere: all I had to do was open my eyes, hold out my hand … That space, that happiness had a color: rose-pink. The pink of the sky at sunset, a vast, transparent, faraway pink whose absurd apparition represented my life. I was vast, transparent and faraway, and my absurd life represented the sky.
Living was painting: coloring myself with the pink of the inexplicably suspended light …
~César Aira